


The little things

by StrictlyNoFrills



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Book, Gen, Hobbit Yule, I couldn't find a tag for Sam and Aragorn's frienship, I'm also making up my own Hobbity Yule traditions, I'm making it a thing, Oneshot, but Hobbity Yule traditions (that I just made up) totally helped make it better, how is that not a thing yet?, mainly set in Fellowship of the Ring, mostly bookverse but a tiny bit of influence from the films as well, the hands of a healer, those first few days after leaving Rivendell were ROUGH, yes this is a Christmas fic of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrictlyNoFrills/pseuds/StrictlyNoFrills
Summary: He placed his bowl in its usual spot within the pack and then paused, tilting his head at the feel of something new. Running his fingers along the smooth, slender surface, Aragorn gave into his curiosity and pulled the item out.A new pipe, carved from the same sort of pale pine wood that was so prevalent in Rivendell, rested in the palm of his hand.A winter's tale of the small overtures of friendship that might just determine the course of the future.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Legolas Greenleaf, Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took, Frodo Baggins & Merry Brandybuck & Sam Gamgee & Pippin Took, Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, sam gamgee & aragorn
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	The little things

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope this story finds you well, and that you have a happy New Year.
> 
> Initially, I had an idea for a cute _Hobbit_ Fili/Fem!Bilbo romcom Christmas fic, but I've recently had _Lord of the Rings_ stuck on the brain, so I wound up writing this instead... Jury's still out on whether or not I'll wind up writing that romcom fic as well.

Snow clung in tenacious clumps of flakes to lashes, beards, and hair. Breath formed a fine mist on every exhale. Feet long accustomed to extended travel ached from several days of treading over frigid mountain ranges.

Aragorn could travel in such conditions for weeks and months without end, yet even he was grateful when Gandalf declared that the fellowship should make camp for the afternoon.

With little fanfare or discussion, Aragorn and Legolas set off to scout ahead and behind to ensure that they could spend their midday slumber in relative peace, leaving the others behind to set out bedrolls and divvy up rations. Judging by the savory scent drifting towards Aragorn’s nose as he headed back towards camp, Gandalf had decided that for once, a hot dinner would not go amiss.

Aragorn agreed. His search of the miles ahead revealed nothing alarming enough to warrant forgoing a small fire, and they could all stand a little extra warmth and cheer.

His feet made little noise as he strode back into camp, yet still the hobbits glanced up at his approach, their keen ears accustomed to seeking out the steps of the Big Folk – even ones so practiced in the art of stealth as he. Frodo offered him a small smile and nod of greeting, and Merry and Pippin nodded before turning as one to gang up on Boromir, their self-appointed combat instructor, who had briefly sought to take advantage of their distraction and shortly came to regret it. Sam spooned out a thick, hearty-looking stew in a wooden bowl and held it out.

“There you are, Strider,” Sam said, his words calm yet welcoming – a stark change from his reception when first they met at the Prancing Pony. His efforts to protect Sam’s master on the journey to Rivendell had done much to soften his opinion. There had been a certain bashfulness in the wake of discovering that Aragorn was heir to the throne of Gondor, but Sam, in the way of hobbits, did not put much stock in the concept of royalty, and so he swiftly overcame his bout of shyness. Aragorn had been grateful. One day, he would need to take his place as king, but until that day came, he welcomed the camaraderie the casual irreverence of hobbits afforded. “Eat that before it gets cold, won’t you?”

Aragorn stepped forward and accepted the bowl with a quiet, “Thank you, Sam,” and went to sit on a small boulder that would allow him a clear view of the terrain.

A short while later, Legolas returned from his own scouting, his report similarly heartening. He accepted his own bowl of stew and took up a perch that would have been precarious for any other member of the fellowship. Aragorn raised an eyebrow at him and received an impish shrug in return. Rolling his eyes, Aragorn returned his attention to his meal, scraping up the last morsels with his spoon, thankful that Sam was not only a faithful and protective friend of their ringbearer, but an accomplished cook as well. As a member of the Dunedain, Aragorn could survive on the most basic and unappealing dishes, including but not limited to tree bark, but to do so was certainly not his preference. Besides, their task was already cheerless enough that they should take any opportunity to raise their spirits in the rare instances when it was safe enough.

With a few handfuls of snow, Aragorn cleaned out his bowl and walked over to the place where his bedroll had been laid out, his pack sat neatly atop it. He placed his bowl in its usual spot within the pack and then paused, tilting his head at the feel of something new. Running his fingers along the smooth, slender surface, Aragorn gave into his curiosity and pulled the item out.

A new pipe, carved from the same sort of pale pine wood that was so prevalent in Rivendell, rested in the palm of his hand. The stem was flawless and narrow, and the bowl was carved with tiny athelas flowers. Such a pipe would take a great deal of time and skill to carve, and Aragorn wondered at the effort which had been put into his mysterious benefactor’s gift – for surely that must be what it was. None of the others within the fellowship possessed a pipe such as this, and so it must be new, and the pattern seemed highly specific.

Running the pad of his finger over the stem of the pipe again, Aragorn glanced surreptitiously around at the others. Who would give him such a gift? Given the detailing which clearly referenced their journey from Bree to Rivendell, it must have been one of the hobbits, but which one?

With some regret, Aragorn decided to say nothing. This gift was given to him in secret, and he would not draw undue attention to it if that would go against the gifter’s wish. Instead, he pulled out a bit of pipe weed and set about enjoying the fruits of his anonymous friend’s labors, though he did flick his gaze over the four hobbits from time to time.

He caught Sam watching him smoke with a small smile on his lips at one point and tipped his head in question.

The tops of Sam’s ears turned a faint pink, and he glanced away, turning to speak with Frodo.

Ah. So, that was the way of it.

As the others bedded down for the afternoon, Aragorn took first watch with a small grin and the taste of pipe weed and pine on his lips.

* * *

The next afternoon, upon finishing his dinner, Aragorn found another small gift awaiting him. A thick bundle of dried athelas, tied off with a bit of twine. He brought the herbs to his nose and inhaled long and slowly, a sense of peace overtaking him at the familiar healing scent.

Two gifts in two days. This called for a response of some kind, but what?

As he brought up the rear of the line the next day, Aragorn heard Frodo, Pippin, and Merry quietly discussing the small gifts they had given each other for the days leading up to what they called Yule, and he glanced over towards Sam, who was suspiciously silent, though Sam was forced to say something when Frodo placed a gentle hand on his gardener’s arm. “I can’t thank you enough for the dried lavender and orange peals you left in my pack last night, Sam. They smell just like the little cachets I like to put in my wardrobe at home. Wherever have you been keeping all of these wonderful things?”

“Well, now, that would be telling, wouldn’t it, Mister Frodo?” Sam said, his cheeks rosy, and not from the chill winter air. “And thank you for the new whetstone, sir. That’ll be right useful, and no mistake.”

Frodo bumped against his friend lightly. “I am glad you like it, Sam. Though, I would much rather have given you new paper and writing utensils as I usually do.”

“I do enjoy being able to practice my writing, though I don’t see how I’d be able to put them to much use out here, Mister Frodo.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Frodo said, his words quiet and his tone melancholy, and Aragorn sensed that Sam, in his attempt to cheer Frodo up, had rather missed the point.

 _So_ , he thought to himself, _find something small and meaningful that will make Sam happy_.

He glanced around at the snowdrifts and shook his head. Even a ranger accustomed to foraging would have a hard time finding such a thing for a hobbit during the winter season and in this terrain. He wished that he could have known of this hobbit tradition back in Rivendell so that he might have a chance to choose better how he might respond, but he was determined to find some way to do so, regardless.

* * *

That afternoon, Aragorn found a pouch of willow bark waiting for him upon rejoining the rest of the fellowship, and he tucked it away wondering if Sam would come to regret giving him such a gift. Willow bark was excellent for reducing pain, but the flavor was more of a punishment than a balm, and could only be improved by mixing it with a bit of honey or steeping it in mulled cider or wine. Though Aragorn wished that no member of the fellowship would become injured on this quest, he knew better than believe that such an eventuality could be avoided, and it was a boon to have his own small stash of willow bark increased. He went to replace the pouch only for his fingers to brush against something else unexpected.

Shooting Sam a glance that was at once amused and impressed, Aragorn pulled out what turned out to be a small vial of honey, which would not only improve the flavor of the willow bark, but would help ward off inflammation as well. He found himself silently echoing Frodo’s curiosity. Where had their favorite gardener been storing all of these little treasures?

To say nothing of how Aragorn should answer Sam’s friendly offerings.

Upon waking after their midday rest, the fellowship prepared to resume its march through the dreary lands west of the mountains, and at last, Aragorn had his answer as he listened to Sam quietly bemoaning to Bill, his faithful companion, about forgetting to pack an extra blanket, as he’d heard his master’s teeth chattering all throughout their midday break, and he’d had naught to give Frodo to warm him. Sam was in the midst of furtively feeding Bill an apple before the rest of the others finished eating their waybread and putting away their bedrolls, and likely assumed that everyone else was too absorbed in their own tasks to hear, but Aragorn’s ears were sharper than most Men’s. So, too, were his eyes, and he noted with some interest that Sam appeared to have lost a stone in a matter of days.

He wondered how deep the pockets of Sam’s coat would prove, should Aragorn have the chance to check them, and glanced away with a minute smile and shake of his head. That was one less mystery to solve, and should prove useful in the days to come, as it meant Sam should have plenty of room to store the small extra blanket Aragorn currently kept in his pack. As Aragorn intended to join Boromir in Minas Tirith, it was unlikely that he would have need of it, but he, much as he was discovering about Sam, preferred to be prepared for many eventualities, and had brought the blanket along regardless. Initially, Aragorn had brought the extra blanket to help ward off shock in the event that a member of the fellowship received a deep wound, but he saw no reason that the blanket could not be used now to keep their ringbearer warm in these unforgiving climes, and he knew that in the end, what truly made Sam happy was ensuring his master’s safety and comfort.

As the group trudged through the open, windy plains that evening, Aragorn listened to the hobbits discussing their latest gifts to each other with some amusement. Apparently, Merry and Pippin had both taken it upon themselves to give the other more pipe weed, and Frodo and Sam laughed fondly at their predictability.

“Well, and what did you two give each other, then?” Pippin demanded. “And don’t try to tell me that you won’t be glad of the extra pipe weed you got from Merry and me, because I won’t believe a word of it.”

“That’s true enough,” Sam said ruefully. “I packed some for myself, but I doubt it would have been nearly enough.”

Frodo patted Sam on the shoulder. “ _That_ is because you spend all your time thinking of everyone else, and you never leave yourself nearly enough time to think of your own needs, Sam.”

“I think of myself plenty, Mister Frodo,” Sam protested, and the other three hobbits sent him heavily disbelieving looks. “What? I do, at that.”

“Sure you do, Sam,” Merry replied, his tone as dry and uncompromising as Harad.

Aragorn never did discover what gifts Frodo and Sam exchanged that particular day, as Merry, Pippin, and Sam descended into a friendly argument and Frodo observed their antics with fond exasperation. Following behind the four friends, Aragorn kept one ear on them and the other on their surroundings, and he mentally added a bundle of licorice sticks to the short list of items he would leave for Sam upon reaching the fellowship’s next camp site, such as it would be. The sticks were good for the teeth, but they would also be a good substitute for when Sam’s supply of pipe weed ran out – and it was possible that, if given enough, Sam might even reserve some of them for himself.

They stopped for a short time in the middle of the night to eat a bit of waybread and dried meat. Whilst Gimli and the hobbits stepped away to handle personal matters, Aragorn took the opportunity to place the extra blanket in Sam’s pack. He would give Sam the licorice sticks tomorrow.

Legolas watched him curiously. “It is a strange game that the five of you are playing. Why not simply hand Sam his gift, rather than hiding it?”

“It’s tradition,” Gandalf said as he indulged in a bit of his own pipe weed. “Hobbits are not much for pomp and circumstance, and they are quite fond of their ability to pass unseen whenever they wish. Because of this, for the last five days of their year, they enjoy leaving Yule gifts for their friends and family in secret. It is their way of honoring the shortest days of the year and ushering in the new year.”

“So, that is why I keep finding little things slipped into my pockets,” Boromir murmured, glancing off towards where the shorter members of their fellowship had gone. The proud, stern Man looked touched, and if Aragorn had to guess, he would say that Merry and Pippin had been slipping Yule gifts into Boromir’s pockets during their short bouts of training.

“It is a cruel thing not to find oneself the favorite of one of our hobbits,” Legolas lamented facetiously.

“Well, perhaps if you spent a little less time listening to the grass and the few trees we’ve passed and more time speaking with the hobbits…”

Legolas rolled his eyes lightly at Aragorn and made a show of ignoring him until the other half of their fellowship returned.

When he bent down to retrieve his pack, Sam made a curious sound upon discovering the slight additional weight. He opened the pack and the look of wonder on his face was something Aragorn would carry with him for a good, long while. He turned away before Sam could catch him watching, and noticed Legolas giving him and approving smile.

The next afternoon, Aragorn received a small pot of tallow, which would be good for soothing chapped skin or healing scars. Someday, he would have to ask Sam where he learned all his healing lore. Was it from his mother? His father? Some kindly elder of the Shire? Whomever it had been, he or she had taught Sam well.

* * *

On the fifth day of gifting, and the day which hobbits considered Yule, according to Gandalf, Aragorn helped Sam to stand up when he tripped over a hidden hole in the ground and slipped the bundle of licorice sticks into Sam’s pocket. He knew the exact moment when Sam discovered his gift about half a candle mark later, when Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them warm and his eyes went wide. He pulled the bundle of sticks out and gave a delighted gasp as soon as he got a whiff of their strong scent.

“What do you have, Sam?” Frodo asked, glad of his friend’s sudden happiness.

“Licorice sticks, Mister Frodo.” He paused for a beat. “I suppose it weren’t you who left them then, sir?”

“No, Sam, I can’t say that it was. Merry? Pippin?”

The youngest members of the fellowship shook their heads.

“It must have been whoever gave you that lovely blanket yesterday,” Frodo said, leaning against Sam for a moment before moving away. “Thank you, again, for lending it to me, although you really ought to have used it for yourself. It was meant for you.”

Sam frowned down at the bundle still held in his hands, his tone thoughtful when he murmured, “I’m not so sure of that, Mister Frodo.”

Several hours later, Aragorn found his fifth and final gift squirreled away in his pack like all the others before it. He opened the small leather pouch and inhaled the heady aroma of clove with an appreciative smile. Not only were the cloves aromatic, but they would help to ward off infection as well, should one of his companions be wounded. He was grateful for each of the gifts Sam had given him, but he was also glad to know that he was not the only healer among the fellowship. It would make the point at which they must take their leave of each other to go and tend to their separate tasks far easier to bear, though he would have to find a way to verify that Sam had kept some healing herbs, spices, and ointments in his own pack.

* * *

Many months later, after their initial meeting before the host gathered to honor Frodo and Sam, when the outpouring of joy had died down and Sam lay once more recovering from his time in Mordor, Aragorn sat upon the edge of his bed and said, “May I ask you something, Sam?”

“Well, seeing as you’re king now and all, I suppose you might,” Sam replied, a teasing glint in his still-weary eyes.

Aragorn chuckled, appreciating a bit of cheek after the respectful and even reverent formality most people now offered him. “Thank you for your indulgence.”

“You’re welcome. What was it you wanted to know? I doubt there’s much more to tell you about what happened to me and Mister Frodo, though I will if there is.”

“No, I’ll not ask you to relive any more of that dark time. Not unless you wish to discuss it. I wished to ask about something far less fraught. What made you decide to include me in your Yule celebrations at the start of the quest?”

Sam’s eyes widened and he glanced down at the bed linens wrapped around his small form, which would take time to regain its old, hearty stoutness. Every now and then, he would run his hands over the covers as if to remind himself that they were real. “I didn’t trust you very much when we first met,” Sam said at last. “But you led us and you protected us and you got us to Rivendell anyway, and I don’t know as we would have made it there without you. Especially not Mister Frodo, what with those wraiths and all. I suppose I wanted to apologize and to say thank you, and that I’d like for us to be friends, and that seemed like the best way to do it.” He glanced up and then away again. “I wasn’t expecting to get anything back, but it was right kind of you, and that blanket and those sticks did a lot of good when Mister Frodo and I were on our own. Thank you, Strider. Aragorn – Elessar – whichever it is you’re going by now.”

Aragorn laughed again and laid his hand gently upon Sam’s shoulder. “I do seem to have more names than I know what to do with, don’t I? ‘Strider’ will do just fine from you, Sam. I dare say you and Frodo have earned the right to call me whatever you might wish.” Aragorn could also admit, at least to himself, that he quite enjoyed seeing the faces of those who did not know him well when the hobbits addressed him so. He rose then and added, “You are more than welcome for any aid my gifts might have given you. It might please you to know that your gifts helped to lift my spirits and to heal many of the wounded. Thank _you_ , Sam, for everything you have given, and everything you have done.”

Sam seemed both lost and pleased, and a little overwhelmed, though this little meeting between friends was nothing compared to the vast gathering Sam had attended shortly after he awoke, and Aragorn found that he understood the muddled feelings all too well. So far, he doubted more than his closest companions had noticed, but in spite of the many years he had spent preparing to serve his people, he still felt like a mere Ranger of the North most of the time.

“Well, now, I’d say you’re welcome, but I don’t think I’ll be up to doing anything quite like going to Mount Doom again anytime soon. You _are_ welcome for the Yule gifts, though.”

With a gentle squeeze of Sam’s shoulder, Aragorn said, “It is my greatest hope that there will never be a need for such a journey ever again, and especially not for you and Frodo. Rest well, Sam.”

“I think I will,” Sam said softly, and as he strode away from Sam’s room, Aragorn was quite certain that his friend was right.


End file.
